


Crimson

by LPM



Series: Blood Justice [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood Loss, Bloodlust, Boys Kissing, Crime Fighting, Crime Scenes, Crimes & Criminals, Detective Derek, Detective Derek Hale, Detective Stiles, Detectives, Love/Hate, M/M, Major Original Character(s), Male Slash, Minor Original Character(s), Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Original Universe, Slash, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Vampires, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-02-10
Packaged: 2018-01-11 19:56:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1177278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LPM/pseuds/LPM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The case continues on its bloody path as yet another body is found! With Derek and Stiles not exactly getting along, despite (or because of) What Happened At The Bar, things get heated fast as they run around town trying to find the vampire brothers Asimov and Antonin Amicus. Prophecies, involuntary shifts, and Argents all have the not-so-dynamic duo and their fellow detectives working hard, but will a brush with danger have Stiles hanging in the balance of life and death?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crimson

**Author's Note:**

> HEY GUYS! Y'all seriously have my heart and soul! Like...I do this only for you guys (and to hone my writing because when I don't write, I get dull). Things are COOKING in this chapter so please strap yourselves in for a RIDE.  
> Some notes, I put a non-con warning on this one for some stuff that goes on in the end. There's no rape or anything, but there's definitely some one-sided action going on. I might just be overreacting, but I know it triggers some people so i'd rather err on the safe side and plop a warning in there. That said, there's some blood and there's some gore and some cussing etc. Just the usual. This slow burn is burning along, don't worry! Anyway, as usual, please go ahead and leave your questions, concerns, crit and otherwise down in the comments, y'all know I loooove comments, and please do visit me at thelpm.tumblr.com I don't bite, I promise!

  
_The night encroached around them, but the small group huddled silently in a circle of light cast by the roaring fire they stood around._

_"Is that the last of them?" Adamus Amicus turned to his brother Ametrius, who looked sorrowfully at the soaring flames and nodded._

_"Yes. It is all of them." Adamus did not mirror his brother's sentiment. His eyes, as they stared at the fire, were cold, devoid of any regrets. All around him, his family stood, watching the fire. Only his youngest son, Andrej, showed the same kind of sadness as Ametrius as he watched the flames._

_"You act as if this is just any fire" Ametrius said sadly, "but the flame consumes more than just wood brother. It is devouring us, don't you see? It eats our history, our past, everything that we are."_

_Adamus turned around quickly, fixed his brother with cold eyes and spoke softly but dangerously,_

_"The fire consumes nothing but needless sentiment" he hissed, "it feeds from the evidence of our mediocrity!"_

_Ametrius refused to be cowed in the face of Adamus' temper and stood taller,_

_"Not mediocrity brother" he said quietly "it feeds from the evidence of our humanity."_

_And indeed, as they both watched, the flames licked against the painted smiles of their largest family portrait. It had been a decision made by Adamus and executed by Arsenic, his son._

_"It was a necessary evil, brother" Adamus murmurs placatingly, not wanting to further irritate his brother._

_"There must be nothing left. The Amicus family here must die in these flames so that we can be reborn anew."_

_Ametrius said nothing, just watched as every last scrap of his family was burned to the ground._

* * *

 

Stiles gets Lydia to drop him off at the bakery rather than taking the train. Molly's Bakery is a bright looking store sandwiched between a chicken restaurant and a bail bonds office. The front itself looks very like a giant cake, festooned with red, blue, and yellow rows of scalloped "icing". Stiles waves to Lydia, who waves back before speeding off in the car, and then looks around for Derek.

He's not looking for long when the familiar rumble of a car engine draws his attention to the road, where he sees the Camaro motoring through traffic. Derek parks not far from the bakery and gets out of the car.

Suddenly Stiles remembers the previous night and a knife of embarrassment slices through him. Tripping over one's own feet is ridiculous enough, but being saved, romantic comedy style, by your seriously hot and seriously _serious_ work partner is nothing short of shameful. Derek isn't exactly the "let's joke this off" type, and Stiles doesn't even know where to begin with that one moment of heated staring that had transpired between them.

"Oh no" he mutters to himself, "this isn't good."

Before he can freak out for too long, the passenger side of the Camaro opens and a slim, booted leg steps down. Stiles watches in confusion as the owner of that leg, a model-thin waifish person, gets out of the car and shuts the door. Long white-blonde hair falls in shoulder-length waves, framing an aristocratic face. It takes Stiles a moment to realize that the person, currently leaning in to give Derek a kiss on the cheek, is a man.

"Stilinski" Derek greets him in his usual gruff fashion, after sending tall, blonde, and beautiful on his way down the street. Stiles blinks a few times, surprise distracting him from his earlier dismay, he coughs to regain some composure,

"Hale," he replies.

They walk into Molly's, where a chipper, pigtailed shop girl guides them to a back room.

"Cragan tell you what we're doing here?" Stiles asks, as they walk through the sugary-sweet reek of the bakery's cluttered inner halls. Derek shakes his head,

"no" he says, "but I've got a good idea."

Stiles wants to ask him what that idea is, but they step into a small room at that moment, and are greeted by the sight of a man, sitting stock still at a desk.

"Gentlemen" the man says in greeting. He nods to the shop girl, who smiles and leaves, shutting the door to the room behind her.

"I am Daniel" the man says, "I own this shop."

Stiles goes to get his badge, rummaging in the pockets of his jacket,

"you have no need for that Detective Stilinski" Daniel says, looking calmly at them, "I know who you are"

Stiles freezes, feels a chill run down his spine, and turns to look at Daniel.

What had seemed like a very ordinary man, brown haired and brown eyed with an unremarkable face, changed on second look. Stiles couldn't say what it was about that placid face that made Daniel into somewhat more than just a man, perhaps it was the light in those brown eyes, turning them flame-bright in his otherwise still face.

"You are here to listen to a prophecy" Daniel continues, "one that can mean life or death"

Derek shifts,

"this prophecy," he says, "it has to do with our case?"

Daniel closes his eyes,

"a case is a many-faceted puzzle Detective Hale" he murmurs, "a prophecy can give insight as to any face of the riddle you must solve."

Stiles watches a muscle tic in Derek's clenched jaw, obviously he doesn't put much stock in prophecies.

"Alright" Stiles says, "please tell us."

Daniel breathes out and suddenly the room is plunged into darkness and the air becomes ice-cold. Daniel opens his eyes, but the irises are milk white, unseeing.

"The...." Daniel chokes out, in a voice that echoes with the sounds of thousands of other voices, "the viper...it hides....hides in tall grass....it must hide...hide...in tall grass...to strike...it will strike....it must hide in tall grass to strike....to strike...it's prey....beware...for the viper....the viper....it is cunning..."

the prophecy ends and light comes back into the room. Daniel is slumped over, shivering. Stiles himself feels the remnant of the earlier chill clinging to him, he turns to Derek and is shocked to see red eyes and dropped fangs. It's as if Derek's hackles are raised and he's glaring at Daniel mistrustfully, a low growl rumbling in his chest.

"woah there tiger, calm down..." Stiles warbles nervously, putting a hand on Derek's tensed arm.

Suddenly he's staring into those bright red eyes, the brunt of Derek's forceful alpha aura pressing in on him. His heart speeds up, but for entirely different reasons than the last time he and Derek were so close.

"Do not be afraid, Detective Stilinski" Daniel intones, rasping slightly "Detective Hale will not harm you."

Stiles laughs nervously, eyes still locked with Derek's fierce red gaze,

"sure about that doc?" he mutters. Derek takes a step forward, all the way into Stiles' personal space,

"the magic required for a prophecy has simply...loosened his control over his beast...he will return to himself shortly" Daniel says placidly, watching them with bright brown eyes. Stiles shoots Daniel his most intense, 2 second side-eye,

"you didn't think it would be, I dunno, _important_ to warn us that could happen!!?" he hisses. Daniel cocks his head and gives him a faint smile,

"I would think so yes...had I known it could happen." he says. Stiles groans, which only makes Derek step even closer, crowding him against a wall.

"Ok Stiles, come on, think back to werewolf 101. Alpha survival tactics....submission....yes submit..." Stiles takes a deep breath and lowers his eyes, looking away to the side and turning his head to expose the long column of his neck.

Everything is still for a moment, Stiles is breathing hard, praying that this doesn't end in his throat being torn out by his magic-spooked alpha of a partner. Derek moves impossibly closer, the entirety of his body pressed up against Stiles' own. Before Stiles can react, Derek's face is in his neck and he's inhaling deeply against the skin, making Stiles shudder.

He stays there for a moment, and Stiles decides to take a gamble and touch him again. He'd learned about anchoring for wolves, being someone who could bring them back when their wilder sides took over. While he and Derek aren't near close enough for that bond to have formed naturally, maybe his being the only familiar thing in the vicinity could serve as enough of one to bring Derek back to himself.

"Hey, come on partner" speaking softly, he puts a cautious hand on Derek's tense arm again, gripping the rock hard muscle there. "come on man let's calm down."

Miraculously, he feels Derek relax, feels his breathing even out and the extra hair on his face recede. Soon enough he's standing up and blinking dazedly,

"there you are" Stiles says, looking into Derek's usual green-blue eyes, "welcome back partner."

Derek is, as usual, gruff in his response and gives Stiles an annoyed look before grumbling out a grudging "thanks." and spinning around to stride out of the room.

Stiles, left standing there and feeling kind of like an idiot, gives a sheepish farewell to Daniel before rushing out so Derek doesn't just get in the car and drive off without him.

As he walks through the store and out to the street, annoyance blooms in his chest, burning out any other "feelings" that might have been taking root there. He'd thought that maybe his and Derek's rapport would get better with time, that they just needed to get to know each other better, but the past month hasn't helped Derek's chronic case of The Richards at all it seems.

Thankfully the Camaro is still outside when he gets there and he opens the passenger seat and sits, fully into his irritation and not intent on being anywhere in the vicinity of his asshole partner but not really wanting to take the subway back to HQ.

Derek doesn't even glance at him. Just starts the car and pulls into traffic, driving in silence.

* * *

 

Isaac Lahey misses California. New York is grey and busy and full of slab-faced drones of people who couldn't spare a smile for a passing stranger. He hates the smells and the endless stream of traffic, human or otherwise, that he's constantly surrounded by. Back home, he'd been small-town, training up in Beacon Hills with the Hale family. He'd been orphaned early on, his mother had died when he was very young and his father succumbed to alcoholism when Isaac was in high school. The Hales took him in, trained him up, and put him through college. The only reason he'd been brought along in the place of one of the big city aces, was because of his specialized Hale training, a mark of pride among supernatural enforcement types.

He never misses the relative quiet of home more than when he's on a crime scene, scoping out the gruesome specs of some homicide or other in the grim, dank, shoeboxes New Yorkers called homes.

"COD was ruled suicide by responding officers, but they called us in because this one was suspicious" Lydia Martin, medical examiner for the home unit, looks up at the form hanging from the ceiling.

"Grace Elliot, 17, died from asphyxiating via hanging by a rope from a ceiling beam." Scott McCall, Isaac's partner, reads from the file given to them by the original detectives.

"Why were we called in on this one?" Laura Hale, their team leader and all-around badass, asks.

"This girl and Evelyn Summers went to the same school, they ran in the same group but weren't really close friends." Scott explains, "same situation as Evelyn. New boyfriend the parents only ever saw a few times, became pale and withdrawn and then showed up dead."

Laura nods, looking grim,

"I'm willing to bet its the same MO," she growls, "kills her then stages a suicide. Sloppily too. Ms. Martin, what've we got so far on the body?"

Lydia consults her clipboard,

"well we don't have much, just that it looked like strangulation by cutting off the bloodflow in the carotids, hence the paleness of the face. Rigor has set in so its been at least 3 hours, going by the temperature. It's odd, though, from just looking on the back of the legs, lividity occurred while the body was lying on its back, meaning our girl was dead for a time before someone hanged her. If that's so, the petechial hemorrhaging associated with asphyxiation will also be absent." Lydia scowls for a moment, "if it adds up to homicide, it'll check out with Evelyn Summers' COD. I can't be sure right now, but I'm probably going to find hyper regeneration sites on the skin."

Isaac shakes his head, looking away from the pale, dead, face of Grace Elliot.

"we gotta catch these bastards" he mutters, "people haven't done things like this since the dark days"

His team members nod in agreement.

The world back during the Bloody Decade was a place ruled by fear. Isaac himself had only been 5 years old when the battle at Witch's Walk had happened; so young he could barely remember the terror that tinged the very air. He does remember the raids, when gangs of bloodthirsty vamps would scour towns for victims, drag people screaming from their homes and kill them in front of their families. He remembers his mother's panicked breathing as she clutched him to her chest while they hid in their neighborhood bunker. The vampires couldn't get in, but the screams of those unfortunate souls, those who hadn't run far or fast enough, could. He'd been so young, but he'd understood fear back then; he'd been weaned on it.

"Alright Ms. Martin, we'll let you get to work on this one" Laura says, shaking everyone out of their own memories, "I'll call Derek and let him know about our latest victim."

Lydia nods and begins seeing to the transport of the body, talking in low murmurs with Jackson, who comes into the room from elsewhere in the house.

"Where is Derek actually?" Scott asks, as the team packs up to leave. Laura sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose,

"Probably out with that Stilinski kid," she says,

"Stiles," Scott supplies helpfully, "his partner"

Laura nods, "yeah, Stiles. Derek got that visitor again though, so he might be off god knows where. It's not like him to skive but...you know how he gets with _him_ "

Isaac groans and Scott rolls his eyes.

Yeah, they all knew how Derek got, and it was not good.

* * *

 

The blood from the girl he'd drank from was already wearing out of his system, but Asimov Amicus couldn't afford to take a break and find another oblivious donor to quench his thirst. Instead, he wills it back, focusing all of his attention on the task at hand.

"Be sure he receives the message" he says, addressing the wide-eyed woman who stands before him. He regards her short-cut artificially colored-red hair with distaste but reminds himself of who he speaks to. The house isn't just any other house, its a sprawling mansion that holds its own against the surrounding homes. Asimov has learned through the years to identify the presence of magic and he can feel it now, humming in the very bones of the property. Had he not been welcome, it would have repelled him immediately.

"Why hasn't your superior himself come?" the woman asks, narrowing her eyes at him. Irritation flares hot inside him and Asimov must clench his fists against it. Instead of lashing out, he smiles thinly at the woman,  
"I understand your apprehension" he says tightly "but my... _superior_ is...otherwise engaged at the moment. He will show himself when the time is right."

The woman nods and accepts the heavy fold of papers, sealed in wax with the Amicus family crest.

"If you want to wait, my father-in-law should be returning within the hour" she says cautiously. Asimov wants to refuse, but knows his mission will be better served by delivering the letter to the person it was intended for.

"Very well." he says and steps beyond the threshold and into the house.

* * *

 

Back at Headquarters, Derek parts from Stiles the second they enter the office, leaving him even more irritated than before. Deciding to go see Lydia for a bit of cool-down time, Stiles goes down to her office, still fuming.

"Lyd...ia?" he calls, walking into the office and seeing an unexpected other person, since usually Lydia is in there alone.

"Detective Stilinski" Jackson Whittemore of the California team stands and greets him shortly, before turning back to Lydia,

"I'll go see what Derek has to say since it looks like he's back," he says, and Lydia nods; then he picks up his white coat and his phone and leaves the lab.

When Jackson is gone, Stiles turns to Lydia and wiggles his eyebrows,  
"what was that all about?" he asks suggestively. Of course, Lydia only rolls her eyes at him, never one to entertain much in the way of teasing.

"How'd the lead this morning go?" she asks instead, and Stiles does a big sigh, gearing up for a big rant.

"Well the lead wasn't much of a lead at all, and my partner is still the biggest jerk this side of the Hudson," he begins, and Lydia puts a hand up,

"Ok I can see this is gonna take some time. I'm getting coffee, you want?" she says. Stiles pauses mid-word, so he stares open-mouthed for a moment before nodding. Lydia gets up and goes to her own personal Keurig, which she keeps against regulation because the coffee upstairs 'isn't real coffee, it's crap and I don't drink crap'.

"Okay so keep talking" Lydia says as she goes about fixing their cups. Stiles takes a deep breath and takes her through the events of the morning, making sure to express how much of a dick he thinks Derek behaved like. When he's finished, he sits back and sips at his, admittedly heavenly, coffee, waiting for Lydia's opinion. She sits sipping her own cup pensively for a few minutes before she speaks,

"well...he was probably kind of uncomfortable." she says at last, and stiles leans in, confused.

"About what? I didn't do anything!" he whines and Lydia gives him the stink eye,

"think about it idiot" she snaps, "here's this super stoic man who, only the night previous, you tripped into and had that intense eyes thing going with. Then today he loses control of himself and goes wolf on you, his partner, in front of a witness. I heard that Hales are all about impulse control, he probably wasn't feeling too hot about letting himself go like that, on top of you of all people becoming an anchor especially after last night? He was probably just being more rude than usual to cover up discomfort."

Done with her analysis, she sits back and stares at him over the rim of her mug.

Stiles snorts but most of the irritation bleeds out of him,

"well...the guy could say something. It's not like I know what's going on inside that sourwolf head of his." he mutters. Lydia shakes her head in a 'why do I even bother' fashion and stands.

"Alright, enough of your emotional hang-ups. We've got work to do on that homicide, I'm gonna go see what Jackson managed to get out of your partner." she says, picking up her clipboard and sliding her phone in the pocket of her lab coat. Stiles stands with her, confused,

"Homicide? We still going over Evelyn Summers' thing? I thought we had all we could get on that." he says. Lydia gives him her 'are you an idiot?' look and shakes her head,

"didn't Derek fill you in?" she asks but then rolls her eyes and sighs dramatically "of course he didn't. Well, we've got a new one in today, looks like the same MO. Could be your vamps. You'd better get your partner to give you the details."

Stiles follows Lydia out of the lab, all the irritation from before back and worse than ever.

It's one thing to be treated about as rudely as could be without being outright about it, but it was quite another thing to be purposefully ignored and left out when it came to important details of the case. If Derek Hale thought he could get away with that level of disrespect when it came to Stiles, then the man had a whole other think coming.

When they reach the office, Stiles makes a beeline for Derek, getting ready to give him what-for, but Captain Cragan, standing next to Derek, stops him before he can get a word in.

"Oh Stilinski, you done with your little date in the lab? Because we've got a line" he says with his typical amount of sass. Stiles, momentarily derailed, blinks at him,

"A line?" he asks, switching gears to work mode. Cussing Derek out can wait. For now.

"We're looking into all the Amicus clan's old associates and we've managed to track down 2." Cragan replies, "I've got Mahealani doing work on a few other hopefuls but you and Hale better head down now."

Stiles nods and looks to Derek, who is resolutely ignoring him.

"Right, I'm sure I'll get the details on the ride down." Stiles says, all sarcasm. Cragan narrows his eyes at the two of them but doesn't comment, leaving them to do their job.

"Well then big guy," Stiles drawls, fed up enough to drop any pretense of friendliness, "we better get a move on."

A muscle tics in Derek's jaw but he doesn't say anything, only turns and strides towards the elevators to the garage, leaving Stiles to roll his eyes and follow.

* * *

 

The drive over is dead silent, Derek navigating the Camaro through the afternoon traffic and Stiles fuming in the passenger seat next to him. The city whips by them and, soon enough, they've left the island and are motoring across the bridge into Brooklyn. Stiles is so caught up in being annoyed that he doesn't remember to ask what the situation is until they're rolling slowly through a quiet neighborhood full of big old houses. It's when they pass by a trio of kids playing cops and robbers that he remembers and sits up, looking around.

They pull up to a stately Victorian just then, and Derek parks then gets out quickly, leaving Stiles staring out his window at the picturesque lawns and minivans sitting placidly on chalked-up driveways.

"We're here" Derek says curtly, lifting his sunglasses off his face and peering up at the house. Stiles clambers out of the car and takes his own look at the building, noting that, despite its initially impressive facade, the place shows signs of extreme neglect. The scraggly, parched square of grass that some might call a lawn, is choked with weeds and littered with all kinds of detritus. The cracked concrete path from the sidewalk, leads to a deck that is sagging and rotted through in places. The light colored trim that edges the windows and the bargeboard on the high-peaked gables, are all dirty and peeling; two of the upstairs windows are boarded up.

"Man...talk about a fixer-upper" Stiles mutters. Derek says nothing, just locks the car and strides forward towards the house.

"Wait a second there cowboy" Stiles snaps, finally reaching the end of his rope. Derek freezes, then turns back around slowly, fixing Stiles with an unpleasant look.

"Cowboy?" he deadpans, and Stiles rolls his eyes,

"yeah, tell me something Tex," he says acidly, crossing his arms, "what exactly are we doing here? I mean, I know I'm not your number one choice of partner" this with not a small amount of bitterness "but I do occasionally need to know what's going on."

Derek's expression is sour, but he turns to walk back to the car where Stiles stands.

"Alright, listen up" he growls, "Your captain said we're following up on old Amicus associates. Well, back in the day there were people who, in order to avoid being killed, offered their blood freely to certain vamps. It was in exchange for protection, food, clothes, etc."

Stiles nods, he remembers these people. Vampire families would often "keep" a whole lot of humans for their blood and soon, the term "Seraglio" was popularized as a way to refer to these groups of people.

"Anyway," Derek continues "the Amicus clan had two big Seraglios, you should know of them right?"

Stiles remembers them,

"The Dhampiraj Seraglio and the Upyri Seraglio" he answers and Derek nods,

"They put some of their cronies in control of them, Moroaicā Hannachi is the vamp they had watching over the Dhampiraj Seraglio and Lamia Kateb had the Upyri one. After Witch's Walk, all Seraglios were disbanded by law and, since they technically did no wrong and their human charges testified for them, those two vamps were let free. They live here now, and we're gonna go see if they know anything useful about their old masters. Satisfied?"

Without waiting for an answer, he spins back around and stalks up the door of the house. Stiles represses the urge to scream and takes a deep, calming breath, before following him.

At the front door, there is no bell, so Derek delivers a round of hard knocks to the door, and they stand back and wait. There's nothing for a moment, and then the door creaks open and a tall woman steps out.

"We have been expecting someone" she says, in accented English. Stiles peers over her shoulder, into the surprisingly well-kept house, and sees another, shorter, woman standing there.

"Come in detectives," the first woman says, stepping aside.

For the second time that day, someone knew who he was before he'd said anything. Stiles is beginning to mislike the trend.

"Ma'am, I'm Detective Hale from the Force, this is Detective Stilinski" Derek says, but the two women seem to be paying no attention. The tall one beckons them into a sitting room while the shorter one strides in another direction, disappearing into the house.

When the three of them are seated in the tastefully arranged living room, the tall woman speaks

"I am Moroaicā Hannachi," she says, "but I assume you already know that."

Derek nods and Moroaicā continues,

"I will ask you to call me Moro, there are few people living who have leave to address me by my full name. My friend, she is Lamia Kateb, but that you also knew yes?"

another nod from Derek,

"good, you come with knowledge. Lamia has gone to find our helper, Strigoi, they will bring tea. It is tradition that we share our hospitality with guests. Even those who come to interrogate us for bloodshed we have no part in."

A chill sweeps the trio at Moro's words, but Derek shows no sign of awkwardness, only leans in and fixes Moro with hard eyes.

"That may well be," he says, "but the blood still remains, and you and your friend joined hands with those who did do it. You and I both know the code Ms. Hannachi, once blood is spilled, no stone is left unturned"

Moro gives Derek a flinty-eyed look,

"I directed you to call me Moro. Only Moro." she says, chilly "I am not in the practice of answering to my surname."

Derek leans back and would have answered, but Lamia reenters the situation with a dour-faced young man in tow.

"Strigoi, table" she says, her English similarly accented. The man, Strigoi, places a tray of teacups on saucers down, then goes about the business of measuring leaves into strainers and pouring water. The room is soon filled with the fragrance of steeping Oolong and, his task complete, Strigoi exits the room.

"Now we have tea." Moro says, "now we talk."

Stiles takes a cup and blows on it a little before taking a small sip. It's good tea. Derek, the cup looking almost comically small in his big hands, does the same.

"Now, Ms. Hanna---" Derek begins, but Moro clears her throat, spearing him with a cold look. Derek clenches his jaw,

"yes, very well, _Moro_ , we have some questions for you about the possible whereabouts of our suspects. The reason we came, as you know, is because you and Miss Kateb are known close associates of the people we're looking for. Do you have any knowledge about where they might be hiding or have they contacted you?" he asks.

For a long moment both women are silent, then Moro speaks.

"I was turned at the age of 25 in the year 1833." she says, and Stiles can tell she won't give them a straight answer, at least not immediately.

"I was young, my husband had been killed, like so many of my people, by French soldiers when they invaded Algiers in 1830. Then I was 22, so lost and afraid, I was like a dog without a home or a master. After the capture, I was taken by soldiers. You can imagine what was done to me at their hands. For three long years, I suffered."

she pauses to sip her tea, then continues,

"soon after the sack, the _colons_ came to Algiers. So many of these people, with faces like those who had ruined my life. By then, the soldiers had gone, leaving me wretched and cold on the street again. One night, I became so desolate that I sought to commit the greatest sin, and end my life. It is then that I met him, a colon with terrible eyes and the devil's own smile. That was Antonin Amicus, the man who turned me. Who turned us both."

Lamia speaks up then,

"I too had had a husband killed by French soldiers, and a child who died from their diseases. I was alone and destitute, without recourse. Antonin saw us, two women without beauty or prospect, and saved us with his bite. When we woke from death, we were as we have been for 180 years since; vampires. He took us back to Paris with him, and from there we were like family."

Stiles sees where this is going, and he doesn't like it; but he lets the two women finish their story.

"Antonin convinced his grandfather to give us watch over the Seraglios, so that we may protect the humans like we ourselves were never protected from those who sought to use us." Lamia says, "he gave us life, in death."

"Even so," Moro chimes in, "the Amicus family master plan, was not anything we were allowed to be part of. Antonin, our savior, never told us anything of importance. He never gave us any knowledge that might cause us to be captured again. He kept us away so that we might live free of the treachery his grandfather embroiled the family in."

Derek sighs, "so you're telling me you don't know anything." he says, and Moro smiles thinly,

"since the day the Amicus clan fell at Witch's Walk, we have neither seen nor heard from any of the family." she says, "save, of course, the youngest brother. But you already have an intimate retelling of that visit, do you not Detective?"

Derek's eyes narrow and he breathes out through his nose,

"we'll be in contact again" he mutters, and stands up to leave. Stiles scrambles to follow suit, thanking both women hastily before hurrying out after Derek, who is already striding over to the car.

When they're both inside, Stiles looks at the house and sees Moro and Lamia staring at them from the door.  
Derek glances over at them and a low-pitched growl fills the car before he's throwing the car in gear and peeling away from the curb with needless speed. Stiles settles in for the ride back to HQ, a temper of his own boiling beneath his skin.

* * *

 

Back at Force HQ, things are still in full swing even as the day winds itself down to evening. Stiles, who had spent the long car ride back from Moro and Lamia's home stewing, has worked himself up to near-rage .

"You wanna explain that back there?" he snaps, when he and Derek are alone in the locker room.

"Explain what" Derek growls, his mood clearly blacker than usual.

"Oh I dunno, how about that atrocious lack of professionalism? Maybe what it was Moro Hannachi said that got you storming out? We could have followed up with more questions, sweet talked them, begged them, something to get a better answer!"

Derek ignores him, violently removing his work shirt and chucking it into his bag; but not even the sight of his firm body, outlined almost indecently against the flimsy fabric of his undershirt, could (fully) distract Stiles from his rant. He strides closer, gets all in Derek's space to make himself impossible to ignore.

"You just stomp around doing whatever you want! You don't consult anyone, you don't listen to anyone, you just go by your own whims! I'm not just some annoying idiot who follows you around all day, I am your PARTNER! I don't deserve to be ignored and disregarded all damn day lo--"

Suddenly he's trapped, pressed uncomfortably against the wall of metal lockers. He opens his eyes (he'd clenched them shut on impact) to Derek's snarling, fanged face, and seething red eyes; but instead of fear, Stiles just feels anger.

"Fuck you!" he shouts, shoving uselessly at Derek's chest.

"You can't just use your Alpha powers and think I'll always submit to you! I'm not one of your betas or omegas. You're not my alpha!"

This is the wrong thing to say, as Derek only presses closer, clenches his hands harder around Stiles' arms, and growls low in his chest.

"No man, this isn't okay! I'm trying to have a conversation with you! We're partners, you can't keep leaving me out of the loop like this!" Stiles continues struggling, pushes wildly against Derek's shoulders; but for all of his effort, Derek only gets closer, until he has Stiles completely pinned against the locker. Then they stand, both breathing harshly, faces close enough that Stiles can see Derek's pupils dilate.

"You're an ass" Stiles pants, refusing to look away from the red of Derek's furious gaze, "Get over yourself."

For one terrifying moment, Stiles isn't sure what's about to happen. His fingers clench tightly in the fabric of Derek's undershirt just as Derek's hands burn against the skin of his arms and they're so close that their breaths mingle in the scant space between them. Stiles is angry, he's _so_ angry; but there's something else there as well. Something else heating his blood to boiling and setting his heart to overtime.

"Ahem," someone clears their throat and the moment passes. Derek closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and when he opens them again they're back to normal. Then he's stepping away from Stiles, who only belatedly releases his shirt. They both turn guiltily to face Cragan, who is looking at them like someone looks at two rascally children.

"Now I'm not gonna get involved in whatever this is that's going on with you," he begins sternly, "but I can't have my head detective team at each other's throats. You understand?" he asks,

"Yes sir," they chorus glumly. Cragan gives them his steeliest glare for a minute longer, then nods,

"Alright you two, come on, we've got another associate trail to follow. Mahealani's got our info up in TARU." he says, and waits until they both follow him, then leaves the locker room.

* * *

 

Danny greets them in the tech unit office with a dimpled smile and an invitation to 'make yourselves at home'. Then he gets down to business.

"Alright so I don't know if you guys knew this but, the Amicus clan actually got their start in this country as a company that sold rare and expensive art and collectibles. They were the kind of company that very wealthy people and art galleries were in contact with. So we pulled their business records, maybe get a little insight as to who they dealt with on a regular basis. Most of it checked out, art dealers and the like, seemed legit; but their earliest records from when they started doing business in the U.S. caught my attention."

he pulls up an old-looking file on the screen. The top boasts a stylized header reading "Sang et Beauté".

"This is an invoice for a shipping order done in 1930 from Paris to New York," Danny says, and pulls up two other similar documents "there are two more of them done in 1931 and 1932. The first time, 2 parcels were sent. A year later, 4, and then finally 2 again. The obvious conclusion is that, this is how the Amicus clan members got into the country. It was pretty common back then. The interesting thing is that they didn't use any old shipping company to do the job. They used this company," he zooms into one document and highlights a name with his pointer.

"Argent? Wait I know that name!" Stiles says, thinking "don't they do a bunch of weapons contracts for the military? Hell don't they supply some of our stuff?"

Danny nods, looking approvingly at Stiles, "you're right there Detective Stilinski" he says, flashing those dimples again, "The Argent Corporation deals mostly in weapons contracts. Production, import, export, and the like. They've been around for a long time, but what's interesting is that they've been incorporated since 1920. Just about a decade before the Amicus business started up in the U.S."

Derek scowls, looking thoughtful, "so what was a weapons company doing shipping in...8 large size 'art pieces' from France?" he asks.

"That's what you two are going to find out," Cragan says, "we found the current company headquarters as well as the primary residence of the Argent family which, wouldn't ya know it, is right here in the city. You guys get over there and try and get a feel of the situation, see if we need to put eyes on these Argents. There's something about that situation that I don't like the smell of."

Derek and Stiles salute before heading out of the tech unit and back towards the garage. Away from other people, the tenseness seeps back into the atmosphere and coils tight. They get the directions to both locations and then had to the garage. Stiles wants to investigate Gerard Argent, the current CEO and head of the family. Their intel says he mostly works from home while his son, Chris Argent, heads things up at the office. Stiles doesn't think the son will know much, but Gerard is older and might remember more. He turns to say as much to Derek as they ease out of the company garage and into the waning sunlight of the outside world.

"Save it," Derek says tersely "we have a job to do now and I don't need your feelings getting in the way. You can scream at me all you want later when we're done interrogating Argent at their company HQ"

Stiles is momentarily struck dumb by how rude the other detective is, but then the moment is over and he's absolutely not having any of it.

"Pull over," he says calmly, his voice so cold it could form ice.

"Excuse me?" Derek says testily.

"I said," Stiles bites out, "pull this fucking car over right now, you self-righteous asshole!"

Derek slams on the brakes and cuts the car to the shoulder, ignoring the shouted curses of other drivers. When they're idling out of the way of traffic, he turns to look at Stiles, expression dangerous,

"What did you just say?" he seethes, but Stiles is unintimidated. He's pissed enough for that.

"Reach back through that thick head of yours and figure it out sourwolf. I'm through with your shit today!" he barks, and reaches into the backseat for his backpack.

"Where do you think you're going?" Derek barks as Stiles gets out of the car, hoisting his bag onto his back.

"To the Argent main house asshole," Stiles snaps right back, glaring daggers at Derek's stupidly handsome face, "I'd explain my reasoning to you but, seeing as the only sound you can hear is that of your own voice, I'd be wasting my breath!"

With this, he slams the door and stalks off down the road, arm out for a cab.

When one pulls up, he gives them the address and sits back. Derek has already left.

That's fine, he's a terrible partner and Stiles is well and truly done with his bullshit for the day.

* * *

 

The Argent main house is a sprawling mansion in Upstate that Stiles has to stop and gawk at for a good five minutes, before straightening up and clipping his badge to his belt. There are lights ablaze in most of the windows and that should have given the house a welcoming aura, but all Stiles feels is an eerie sense of forbiddance as he approaches. When he crosses the property line, all the hairs on his body stand on end and he shudders violently. Magic, he thinks bitterly. Something is definitely up. He doesn't take more than a few steps up the driveway when the front door opens and someone steps out.

In the blue-cast gloaming, the first man's pale skin stands out, almost glowing like pearly moonlight against the gloom. He has a cascade of dark hair that he wears swept away from his face, the features of which Stiles can't quite make out. The other man is old, white haired but strong looking. He's smiling and speaking enthusiastically to the other man. Stiles crouches behind a big hedge of shrubs, but then begins to feel ridiculous. He's an agent of the force, there on legitimate business, why should he have to hide? Clearly his instincts had taken over when the situation didn't call for it; but as he goes to stand up and approach the door, a shadow falls across his path and he turns.

"Oh man!" he exclaims quietly, surprise making his heartbeat speed up, "how did you sneak up on me!? Anyway, nevermind that, I'm no one suspicious!" he begins babbling at the woman who had crept up on him so silently. She stares blankly at him, head cocked to the side as if she was observing some kind of animal.

"I guess that sounds pretty suspicious actually, um, oh yeah!" he fumbles at his belt for his badge and lifts it to the woman's face.

"Here!" he proclaims, waving it triumphantly "I'm a detective with the Force! Here on officia..."

pain blossoms in his stomach and cuts him off mid-word. He doubles over, groaning but manages to lift his eyes to the woman who has just delivered a solid blow to his middle.

"What the...." he starts saying but, faster than any human could, the woman has hit him again, and again, and again. Pain explodes in his head and he definitely hears something crack. Darkness has fallen quickly and he's sure no one can see them as the strange woman attacks him again and again. Stiles fumbles for Lucy, his gun, fingers slipping on what he realizes must be blood. His own. A few more hits have him stumbling to his knees, then finally he's down. The woman approaches, and Stiles can see her feet getting near through eyes that have gone blurry. He waits until she's close before ignoring the protests of his battered body and leaping up and grabbing hold of her head and twisting. He feels the suck crunch of snapping bone and lets go of the woman who drops, lifeless, to his feet.

His victory, however, is short lived. As he stumbles away from the body, another person moving too fast to be quite human appears. Long dark hair whips around him as he stops directly in front of Stiles and wraps long-fingered hands around his neck,

"And who have we here?" he says.

Stiles' eyes widen in recognition. He knows that face. Knows it from the artist renditions, from hearing the descriptions. He's not just looking at any vampire. He's looking at the face of Asimov Amicus

* * *

 

Asimov had never liked the city, and being out in the country reminded him intimately of days long passed. The air, even just outside the city, was already cleaner, fresher, more reminiscent of simpler times, and it suited him far better than the hustle and pollution of city life. Once his business there is complete, though, Asimov is due back to the city, back to the endless hunt that consumes his entire family.

"We'll be in touch" he says to the red haired woman and the old man before stepping out of their home and into the fresh night air. He's looking forward to the chauffeured drive back, where he can have all the windows down and relish the clean air flowing through the car. He takes his time ambling down the driveway to the street where the car, and his associate wait; but as he nears the wall of shrubs and trees that obscure part of the street, he hears the sounds of a scuffle taking place.

Using his vampiric speed, he arrives in time to see a stranger snap his aforementioned associate's neck. Asimov feels irritation replace his easygoing mood and moves so he's standing before the stranger, hands clenched around the man's neck. Just then, the moon shows its face from behind a screen of thick clouds and Asimov gets a good look at who he has in his hands.

The first thing he notices are the eyes, tawny gold and snapping with anger despite the hideous wounds that sluice bright red blood down pale skin. Long lashes flutter against high, slashing, cheekbones, struggling to stay alert against the drag of unconsciousness. The hair is dark mahogany that sits in a tousled thatch atop his head. Asimov's eyes are drawn to a dark mole in a face that should be too angular to be attractive, the man swallows fitfully and Asimov spies another mole on his long, pale, neck, right near where his artery throbs beneath the skin.

"And who have we here?" Asimov drawls curiously, the man moves his hands to do something, but he's been weakened by his beating and moves too slowly. Asimov has him pinned against the ground in an instant.

"That's not very polite" he murmurs, eyes devouring the pained expression on that pale face. He doesn't know what it is about this stranger, doesn't know why the expression in those bright eyes stirs him so. All he knows is, for now, he can't leave him alone.

"Don't worry _petit_ " he says softly, "I won't kill you. Not yet."

He takes the man's arm and digs his nails into the main vein there. Instantly the air is filled with the fragrant scent of blood and Asimov is too hungry to resist. Lovingly, he trails his lips up the pale limb, licking up the blood that drips down from the wound. Then he fixes his mouth to the pulsepoint, and drinks deeply.

It stings, of course. There is a small amount of vervain in his blood, small enough that it only takes a few more moments for it to be out entirely. Asimov stops drinking then, rearing back and dropping the man's limp arm to the ground. His body is burning, a double edge of pain and pleasure forcing a groan from between his lips. In all his years being a vampire, Asimov Amicus has never felt like this; as if all of his nerve endings were sizzling, reckless and barely in control of his actions. He looks down at the man, lying pale beneath him, and is seized with the insane urge to have him, right then and there, amid blood and gravel, pain and sweat.

"No." he growls. Shaking his head, he grasps hold of his last shred of sanity and leans over the man, who is barely conscious. He makes eye contact, focusing his intent through the haze of lust that clouds his mind,

"You will not remember my face, nor will you remember the face of the woman who attacked you. If asked, a rogue vampire did this to you. A rogue vampire beat you up and drank from you before running away." he says, and watches as the compulsion takes hold. Then he goes to stand up, but stops, looking at the pitiful state the man is in.

Helpless to resist himself, Asimov gives in to at least one urge and tears at his own arm, opening a wound and pressing it to the man's lips. Unconsciously, he drinks, sputtering slightly on the taste of blood.

"Yes, drink" Asimov urges soothingly. He stops when he deems the man has had enough, then leans in and swipes his blood from his slack lips. That close, he can see the fan of those dark lashes sitting against too-pale cheeks and Asimov is grasped hard by "something" again. He leans closer, picks the man up by the neck, and presses a kiss onto his lips.

It burns again, the vervain prickling his skin; but Asimov doesn't care, licks into the man's mouth until all the blood is gone and he's groaning again, uncomfortably hard in his pants. The man, for all he's only semi-conscious, fights against him, but that only serves to fuel Asimov's desire. They kiss, harsh and hungry, until Asimov hears the sound of a car approaching. He stops then and looks into those eyes once more,

"sleep," he orders, "sleep and hope you don't die with my blood inside your veins."

The man's eyes fall shut and his body goes completely limp. Asimov stands and goes to pick his associate up from where she's still lying dead. The car is probably their ride back to the city. He'll lie her down in the back seat, she'll probably revive on the way back.  
Sure enough, the car that pulls up is their limo. The driver, who has been compelled to forget everything after he drops them off, helps him with the body. Then they're on their way.

In the silence of the backseat, Asimov can't help thinking of that bright eyed man, lying limp on the ground . It isn't likely anyone will find him in time, and he should be fine with that, he should just let the man die and become a vampire; but that wouldn't look too good for the mission. As delicious as it would be to see those lips press against someone's neck and drink the blood that flowed there, it wouldn't be good to let him die there. Sighing, Asimov takes out his phone and dials a number, waiting until someone picks up.

"Asimov?" the voice on the other end answers. Asimov frowns at the informality of the address but lets it pass,

"There's an agent of the Force dying outside your house" he says shortly, "it would do well of you to call an ambulance. We don't need them getting suspicious, I already have a story ready for you, but for now, make the call."

Satisfied, Asimov hangs up and leans back in his seat, closing his eyes and letting the wind flow through his hair. When his mind drifts, he thinks of angry amber eyes and blood that tasted like flame.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So? How did y'all like it? Like I said before, I'm no pro with the CSI stuff, I just did some research into it. My google history looked like a murderer's guidebook for a few weeks! Yowza! I'm also not really a history buff, so if you are and take issue with the timeline of the Sack of Algiers/Moro and Lamia's story, please point out where I went wrong, historically. If you guys have any questions, concerns, things to point out, or you just wanna chat, please feel free to leave it in the comments! Otherwise please do visit me on tumblr! I'm thelpm.tumblr.com so please do drop by, leave me a message (I love messages) on there if you like!
> 
> Until the next chapter (let's hope Stiles doesn't die!)


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